


Crowley and the Tartan Scarf

by athousandelegies



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-09
Updated: 2013-08-09
Packaged: 2017-12-22 23:03:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/919052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athousandelegies/pseuds/athousandelegies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley hangs on to one of Aziraphale's tartan scarves as a memento of a pleasant afternoon they once spent together. A story as fluffy as they come.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crowley and the Tartan Scarf

"Crowley, rise and shine! You've slept plenty, and I'm not about to let you forget about our picnic!"

Crowley let out a hiss that sounded like a cross between a snake with a stepped-on tail and a scalded cat as sunlight suddenly streamed into the dark room.

"Angel, do you _want_ me to murder you?" he growled as he burrowed deeper into the blankets.

Aziraphale began pulling sheets off the bed, yanking a pillow from the demon's protesting hands.

"Come on, dear, this outing was your idea in the first place, and you don't even really need..." Crowley opened his eyes a crack as his friend's voice trailed off.

Aziraphale was holding a scarf in his hands. Crowley fought the urge to blush as his eyes met the angel's. "What on earth do you have a scarf under your pillow for?—is this _mine_?"

"Gee, how did that get there?" Crowley said hastily, sitting up in bed and looking at the offending length of wool as though he'd never seen it in his life. "Wow, yeah, I was meaning to give that back to you, of course—you, uh, lent it to me last winter, remember?—so that's where it got too, how strange." He realized he was rambling and stopped, embarrassed.

"...Under your pillow?" Aziraphale said doubtfully.

"Yeah, what a slob I am, things end up all over the place, you know how it is," Crowley hurried on.

Aziraphale looked pointedly around the tidy bedroom, from the desk with almost nothing on it to the open closet with its neat row of well-pressed suits. "Of course, dear, I forgot how _very_ disorganized you are." Crowley scowled, deciding it shouldn't be legal for an angel to inject so much sarcasm into a sentence.

"Just forget about it, and go away so I can get dressed, will you?" he snapped. "Go wait in the Bentley, I'll be there in ten minutes. And take the blessed scarf with you."

"All right, all right," Aziraphale said, holding up his hands. "Hurry along, though, dear, I am quite hungry and the beach is a fairly long drive away, even with you behind the wheel."

Crowley was still scowling dreadfully as he shut the bedroom door in the angel's face.

Aziraphale wandered down the hall, thoughtfully running the soft wool through his hands.

Inside his bedroom, Crowley was irritably willing various suits onto his form, trying to decide which was suitable for a picnic at the beach.

Bloody angel, what gave him the right to come barging in and tearing blankets off the bed anyhow? So he had a stupid scarf under his pillow. So maybe he liked the feel of it under his fingers as he drifted off to sleep at night. It wasn't Aziraphale's blessed business.

He wouldn't let himself think about how he'd miss it. He thought back to that day, way back in December...

* * *

They were walking together through a woodland park. The immaculate snow crunched agreeably under their feet. Occasionally other people strolled by, but for the most part they were alone beneath ice-garlanded boughs of the leafless trees.

"I don't care if you're a demon, it's bitter cold," Aziraphale said. "You _must_ be a bit chilly. Really, dear, you should dress for the weather; who cares if you don't look completely stylish."

"So what do you suggest, I wear a big fluffy marshmallow-looking coat and ridiculous tartan mittens like you? No thanks." His words were not harsh; Aziraphale could hear the affection hidden beneath his counterpart's flippant tone.

"Well, you ought to wear something more than that thin suit-jacket when it's below zero out."

Aziraphale pulled off one of the aforementioned tartan mittens and grabbed the demon's hand. Crowley, startled, almost pulled away, but then allowed himself to relax.

"Just as I expected; your fingers are like ice!" the angel chided.

"I'm fine, angel," Crowley retorted, feigning annoyance. The smile tugging at his lips gave him away, however.

Aziraphale began unwinding the scarf that was draped around his neck. It was a garish blue tartan pattern, the sort of thing Crowley wouldn't be caught dead wearing.

"Put this on," he ordered in a voice that brooked no argument. Crowley was forced to stop walking as Aziraphale reached up to wrap it around his neck for him.

"Oh, come on," Crowley protested. "I do _not_ wear tartan, absolutely not." But he held still as the angel looped it for him and readjusted it.

"There," Aziraphale said proudly, stepping back to admire his handiwork. "That should keep your neck from freezing, at the very least."

The wool was still warm from the angel's heat. It was soft, not itchy as Crowley had expected.

He didn't say anything else. On an impulse, he reached for Aziraphale's hand again and tensed, waiting for the angel to stop him. But Aziraphale's warm fingers curled comfortably around his own numb ones as if it were the most natural action in the world.

They continued their trek through the tranquil wood as a light flurry of snow began to tumble down through the glimmering branches.

* * *

While Crowley was reminiscing in his room, Aziraphale was standing in the front hall, absentmindedly stroking the scarf. He also was thinking back to that December day. He smiled gently to himself, his eyes glazed over with the memory of Crowley with tartan wrapped about his neck. His smile grew even fonder as he imagined Crowley falling asleep with the soft wool against his cheek.

As he made to leave the flat and walk out to the Bentley, he paused, looking at the row of hooks beside Crowley's door and considering the scarf in his hands.

 

Crowley stepped out his bedroom and hurried down the hall to join his friend in the Bentley. As he was turning the front doorknob, a flash of gaudy blue tartan caught his eye.

There was the scarf, hanging from a hook. He couldn't stop the grin that came to his face. That angel knew him too well.

He went and grabbed a very good bottle of vintage wine he'd been saving several centuries from the rack in his kitchen, and gave the scarf's fringe a parting touch as he sauntered out the door to join Aziraphale.


End file.
